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February 5th, 2013 - 12:15 PM
Words of A dying Flower
I am a seed upon the underbelly of tarnished crust
Once I descend I find myself planted in a pile a scrap in which I will grow
I am a departed flower from the moment my bud emerges
I have painted pretty colors on a canvas made of waste
But all they can see is the color hate
I present it with merriment, but they still cannot see
They spit upon the dying flower, the dying flower which is me
From the very moment I sprout I am expected to abuse, betray, consume and decay everything that I hold dear
I struggle to enlighten them that they are all mistaken; however they are eyeless individuals with deaf ears
I am no longer a seed on the underbelly of tarnished crust
I feel as if I should have been a rusted gear in a factory of decrepit haste
However I am a dying flower, painted upon a canvas of waste